Facing the Music
by Hawki
Summary: In 2037, construction on Elysium began. In 2097, construction ended. In 2044...not much happened. Nothing that caught the eyes of the world at least. But that does not mean a story does not exist to be told. For every human life is a story. And sometimes, those lives, and stories, intertwine.
1. Ostinato

**Elysium: Facing the Music**

**Chapter 1: Ostinato**

**June 2, 2037**

_And while you'll find it tough up there,_

_It's still tough below._

_Put your feet back on the ground,_

_Find where some grass still grows._

Amanda Sarabi wasn't entirely comfortable with the lyrics. True, everyone in the country and beyond was talking about ArmaDyne's space torus project, a little space habitat named Elysium that according to projections, wouldn't look little at all once it was completed. But that being said, there was no way the people building it would hear her. And if people were looking for grass as a relief from orbital space platform work, Kenya wasn't really the place to look. Or really any place in Africa right now.

'_Cause we're all rooting for you,_

_We look up to the skies._

_When the moon is high at night,_

_And when the sun does rise._

Sotaro began a guitar riff that would end with her performing the final lyrics, complimenting Kodwa and Bongani on the drums and keyboard respectively. To jazz with the beat, to move with the music, to do everything she could to keep her job as singer. One of the few jobs left in the world that was completely free of humanoids.

_So light a fire, come on down,_

_Come, light up my life._

_Cause we're all down here waiting for,_

_A bit of your delight._

"Delight" was drawn out. "Delight" was what some of the bar's patrons expressed, slamming their bottles on the tables, catcalling, or even politely clapping in some places. But they were the minority, and most of them remained focussed on their grog. Or called out names at the bar's sole humanoid waiter, trying to confuse it. Or kept their eyes glued on the flatscreen as analysts debated which candidate would win the country's 2038 election.

"Thank you," Amanda cried out over the crowd. "Thank you very much. Nawapenda wote."

Some of the men whooped at that, but most remained quiet. She hung up her microphone and stepped off the stage.

"Hey girl, you call me!"

"Pussy? I got pussy! Come here pussy!"

And it went on, though thankfully, only for about half a minute. It only took her that long for her to hang up her equipment, cross the pub's floor, and enter Barbata's office.

"I thought I told you to knock."

Amanda sat down opposite his desk anyway. It was wooden, with one half of it covered in papers, the other in the remains of food, drink, and the dispensables that had been used to contain them.

"I heard you from here," Barbarta continued. "Nice voice."

"I aim to please," Amanda murmured. "But I'm not doing it for free."

"No," the man murmured. He opened one of the drawers of his desk and took out a wad of notes, all of them Kenyan shillings. "Of course not."

Amanda didn't regret that. Times were tough. In Kenya, in Africa, and in much of the world these days. Barbarta was one of those people who managed to not be affected by it, as evidenced by his bulk, that he'd managed to replace one of his waiters with a humanoid last week, and that he could afford performers in his bar. "Barbarta's Bar" as people called it, though its actual name was Michanganyiko ya Rose – "the Liquid Rose." He was someone well known, she could tell. If the reason was one that authorities might raise an eyebrow at, she was determined to be in a position where she could plea ignorance.

"Here," he said, handing her the week's pay. "Same time tomorrow night, eh?"

"Ndiyo," Amanda said, taking the money. "Bila shaka."

She got up. Yes. Of course. She'd be here tomorrow night, she told herself. And the night after that. And as long as she could until ArmaDyne or some rival company produced humanoids that could sing. And look female. And do all the other things that humans could do to keep themselves afloat. People not like Barbarta who turned round in his seat, laid back in the chair, and looked up at the flatscreen mounted on his wall, looking at text scrawling along.

Fighting continues in United Sudan…Israel-Palestine peace talks remain in limbo…Shanghai Scandal inquiry finds that-

Amanda turned away and headed out. If she wanted the reaffirmation that life was crap, she could do it at home. Or do the same in the bar proper, even as the Boa Brothers' comedy act had just started and was sending ripples of laughter throughout the crowd. She watched as one of them got out what looked like a pizza, but then put it down, claiming the joke was too "cheesy."

"Puns. Great," she murmured, even as the crowd roared with laughter.

"Inquiry – puns?"

"What?" Amanda glanced at the source of the inquiry, the humanoid looking up from the table it was polishing.

"Inquiry?" it asked again. "Puns?"

"It's a pun. You know…a bad joke? A play on words?"

"Clarify."

Amanda sighed. "Discontinue inquiry. Return to original directive."

The humanoid stared at her, leaving Amanda to wonder exactly what it thought, or if it actually possessed bona fide thought at all. Proper AI had been developed a decade ago (not that she really understood what counted as "proper") in that time, humanoids had popped up everywhere. Militaries. Industries. And just a month ago, this establishment. Barbarta had put the robot to work and dismissed Carpisco the same day. Amanda had tried to keep in touch, and had succeeded for the first two weeks until her friend decided to jump off a bridge.

"Clarify," the humanoid repeated. "Pun. Joke."

"Discontinue inquiry," Amanda said again, staring into its blank visor of its rectangular, blocky body. "Return to original directive. Clean table."

"…complying."

Amanda clenched her fists as the robot returned to its duties. A real waitress (or waiter) wouldn't need telling. A human being could be spoken to without resorting to such moronic language. A human being though, needed to be paid.

_Carpisco…Christ, why'd you do it?_

Even as the crowd roared in laughter at one of the Brothers' acts, Amanda kept staring. Part of her wanted to grab the automaton by the neck and shove its face in. The other, more rational part held her back – if an android didn't understand the most basic form of humour (or even fart jokes…she'd tried), then it wouldn't understand why she'd shoved its face in, and continue to ask why until the cows came home. Scowling, and still looking at the piece of junk, she kept walking to the exit.

"Um, excuse me but-"

"What?!" she yelled, turning to her side. There, she saw a young man. Younger than most of the men in the bar, and not much younger than herself. Brown eyes, short black hair, unlikely to be 21 years old. Maybe he was anticipating that the legal drinking age would be reset to 18 after the election.

"Um, I'm looking for the manager," he said. "My name's Clarke," he said. "I'm looking for the manager and-"

Amanda jabbed her thumb to the door that said "staff only."

"Uh, thanks."

Amanda took a few more steps to the door. Why the boy wanted to see Barbarta, she didn't know. And-

"Why you here?"

And she wanted to know. And despite a look of surprise, the kid answered.

"Waiter. I heard there was a waiter's job being advertised."

Amanda stared at him. Then glanced at the android. Then back at Clarke.

"Is that right?" he asked.

"Hell if I know," she murmured, realizing that maybe it wasn't so surprising after all. Carpisco was twenty-two. Obliged to get a full wage. This kid wasn't. Not for another three years at least.

So she kept walking. Out of the bar. Into the street, and the humid night.

She didn't look back.

* * *

_A/N_

_Update (06/10/2013): Made corrections as per feedback._


	2. Accelerando

**Elysium: Facing the Music**

**Chapter 2: Accelerando**

**July 16, 2038**

One year had passed since Clarke had shaken Barbarta's hand, saying that he wouldn't regret taking him on. In that year, a few things had changed – Chree Marapana had become prime minister. The bar had seen another humanoid added to its wait staff. United Sudan was becoming less united as the northern forces were pushed out of Juba, and the borders had been officially closed to climate refugees from Ethiopia, putting them in the same boat as anyone unfortunate enough to be living in Somalia. The world moved on, and Clarke got glimpses of it every time he glanced at the flat-screen. But after a year, one thing remained the same.

Friday nights were hell.

"Hey kid, where's my beer?!"

"Ni amri yangu tayari bado?"

"Come on kid, the robots move faster than you!"

Clarke grit his teeth, putting one Tusker and glass on one table, and a plate of chapatti on another. The customers complained as much as his employer did, including the claim that the humanoids were more efficient. A claim that had no basis in reality he reflected, as he swept past Isaac to pick up some more plates from the kitchen counter, sidestepping past Karl to deliver the meal. That Barbarta had named the humanoids only made it worse for him. Names showed individuality. Individuality led to initiative. And too much initiative could see him lose his job. Provided Marapana didn't cost him it indirectly – Clarke liked the idea of raising the minimum wage as much as the next Kenyan, but not if he was put in a position where he had no job to benefit from it.

Silently, served a group of customers their beverages and what passed for food. Simultaneously, applause rang out.

_Huh?_

And Clarke saw why, as Amanda and her band walked out onto the stage. Clarke picked up a group of empty glasses as the performers bowed and blew kisses to the appreciative crowd.

"Lucky bums," he murmured. "Don't know how good they've got it…they're safe. They're _artists_. They-"

"Well, everyone, we've got a special song for you tonight."

"Yeah, I bet you have," Clarke murmured, placing the glasses on the kitchen counter. He turned around, only to see Isaac looking at him.

"What's your problem?" he asked.

The humanoid kept staring.

"Go on, move it," he said.

"Affirmative."

Clarke leant against a wall as Amanda prattled on. He didn't mind her performances, if only because people consumed less during them, and as such, it gave him a bit of a breather.

"And so, without further ado…"

And while still leaning against the wall, Clarke closed his eyes. For a few minutes, he could let the music wash over him.

_In the searing heat!_

_In the chill of night!_

_Hiding and fleeing,_

_From the firefights!_

Clarke raised an eyebrow – this was heavier stuff than he was used to from her.

_In the raging heat, of the northern war,_

_Where we don't know what we're fighting for,_

_I've only got one single thing to say!_

Clarke leant forward.

_Stand back, we're breaking down the borders,_

_Breaking down the borders' bars!_

_But know this, don't us you diss,_

_Cause we still bear our golden star!_

And he leant back. Star? Borders? The crowd was cheering as the band entered the chorus, but that wasn't necessarily because of the lyrics. Certainly the melody itself was enough to keep him interested, even as Isaac walked past him with some glasses. Maybe he had the right idea, he thought. On the other hand, no-one would be ordering as the song was played, so he kept listening. And staring. Looking at Amanda. It wasn't the first time, and she looked the same as she always had – brown skin, curly black hair not too dissimilar from his own, but with something different. Something…out of Africa, almost. Maybe it was the light, but-

"Hey kid, I don't pay you to lounge around."

_Shit!_

Clarke stood up straight, nearly knocking down Karl as he brought some dishes to the kitchen. A robot he couldn't care less about right now, as Barbarta stood in front of him. His fat more like muscle, and his eyes like a cheetah's.

"I'm sorry sir," Clarke said, staring around the bar, trying to find a plate or glass he could take to show he could do the job better than the humanoids. "I…um…"

"Ah relax kid," Barbarta exclaimed, slapping his employee on the shoulder. "Music's playing, ya know? Gotta let it move ya."

"Um, sure." Clarke struggled to find the right words. Words that wouldn't touch on how humanoids didn't listen to music, and would keep working even as Amanda let more music 'flow.'

_So take a good hard look, when you make blood flow,_

_Cause soon or late, you've got to go,_

_We'll send you screaming back into the night!_

Amanda let out a scream herself, and the crowd cheered. Clarke glanced at Barbarta, a large grin on his face.

"Great girl, eh?" he asked. "Gotten much better over the last year."

"If you say so."

"Ah, where you been, Clarkie?" the bar's owner asked. He let out a belch, his breath reeking of alcohol. "She's gone political, ya know? Whole Sudan business?"

"Sudan?"

"Golden star? Firefights?" Barbarta let out another belch. "Didn't she ever tell you 'bout her background?"

"No sir," Clarke said, desperately wishing the song would just end so he could get on with his job – a preferable alternative to spending more time with his boss. "We haven't talked much."

"Golden star man, old South Sudan flag! Still used by the rebels last I heard!" He let out another belch, grabbed a bottle from a tray carried by Isaac, and drowned the remnants of the grog. "Poor girl. Came here back in thirty two."

"When Sudan was 'united,'" Clarke murmured, casting his mind back six years, and trying to remember one of the few times he caught a glimpse of a TV back then. "So to speak."

"Yeah. Lost her dad. Been working here since."

"And her mother?"

"Never knew 'er," Barbarta said, scooping up a piece of chapatti. "Some European whore who wanted her daughter to know 'er father before she left the country. Well, that worked well when the war flared up."

Clarke turned away from his boss. It was bad enough that he was filling his face with someone else's food, but he didn't want to hear such language. He wanted to hear language of another kind. And see something different.

_Whoo!_

Only it was too late. Song was over. A song that Clarke realized must have been spurred by the violence to the north. If music was the language of the soul, Amanda had been pouring hers out over the last three minutes, and he hadn't even realized it. He-

"Well, come on kid," Barbarta said, slapping his shoulder again. "Back to work."

Clarke walked towards the stage as Amanda and her band stepped down.

"Amanda!"

She didn't seem to hear him, but he kept walking anyway. He knew the routine. She'd get her money and leave. And he wasn't going to leave until past midnight.

"Amanda!"

She heard him this time and to Clarke's gratitude, held in place as he reached her.

"That," he breathed, "that was-"

"Do I know you?" she asked.

"Um…"

"Oh that's right, Clarke. Only bona fide human waiter we still have."

Clarke smiled. Not because of the comment itself, but because given the look on her face, Amanda seemed to have the same sentiments about humanoids that he did.

"Yeah, um…yeah," he said. "I mean…just wanted to say, that was…your song…"

"Come on kid, you've been here for a year, you must have heard other stuff," she said.

"Well, yeah, but-"

"Look, I gotta go," she said. "But hey, it's nice to talk."

Clarke nodded and let her pass. It was nice to talk indeed.

And listen.

And watch.

To face the music.


	3. Cadence

**Elysium: Facing the Music**

**Chapter 3: Cadence**

**June 20, 2039**

Amanda was singing, but Clarke wasn't facing her music.

He wasn't even in the same room as her. He could hear the sounds, even some of the words, but most of it was muffled. And it was only as Barbarta opened the door to his office, the same office Clarke was sitting in, that he caught a glimpse of them;

_Times and tough, and times are hard,_

_Deep down we know it's wrong._

_But let's all stand together now,_

_Cause together, we are strong._

And the door closed, drowning out Amanda's voice. Soon, the only sound in the room was Barbarta sitting down on his chair. A sound that Clarke noticed had gotten slightly louder in accordance with the man's increase in weight over the past year.

"So…am I here for a reason?" the waiter asked. "Or do you want to spare me from the music?"

Barbarta didn't answer. He instead took out a piece of paper and started writing on it.

"Um, just wondering," Clarke continued. "I mean, music's on, but once it's off, well, you know…"

Barbarta kept writing. The sound of the pen managed to be even louder than Amanda's muffled lyrics.

"Hey! Mimi kuzungumza na wewe!"

"Here," Barbarta said, turning the paper around to face Clarke. "Sign here please."

Clarke did so on instinct. It was only after his signature was there that he saw what lay above it.

"Termination?" he whispered. He glanced up at Barbarta. "You're-"

"Terminating your employment, yes," the man said. He took the pen and put it in a jar filled with similar stationary. "You'll get your final payment next week."

He got up. Slowly, as he tried to move his bulk out of the chair. In contrast, Clarke shot up straight, slamming his hands against the table.

"You're firing me," he whispered. "Two fucking years and you're firing me."

"With the minimum wage, I can't afford not to," his employer grunted, finally getting to his feet. "Besides, the 'noids are doing just fine on their own."

"They're robots!"

"Well then," Barbarta whispered. "That's an advantage, ain't it? Robots don't talk back. Robots do what they're told. And robots know when to leave."

Clarke just stood there, even as Barbarta shoved past him. He opened the door, the sound of applause drifting into his office. Clarke clenched his fists – it was as if every one of those clapping hands had grabbed his heart and was pulling on it.

"Damn it," he whispered. He glanced at the paper, as bereft of personality as Barbarta was of humanity. "God fucking dammit."

He stormed out. He didn't want to be here. Not without being paid at least. He wanted to head home, or at least to what amounted as a home in Kibera. To get back to his shack, see exactly how much money he'd accumulated over his two years of working here, and use it to get drunk. Or get a prostitute. Maybe both.

"Clarke?"

He kept walking. Shoving past Isaac. Knocking a glass out of Karl's hands and sneering as the humanoid was forced to pick it up.

"Clarke?"

And keep walking onwards as he decided not to kick the humanoid in its featureless face. Or "noid," as Barbarta called it.

"Clarke!"

And turn around at the door that led out into Nairobi's streets. To see Amanda walking up to him.

"Where you off to?" she asked. "Your shift over or something?"

Clarke held up the termination notice.

"Oh." Amanda took it, glancing at the document before glancing up at him. "I…I'm so sorry."

"Forget it. Ever since minimum wage was increased, it was only a matter of time" Clarke took the document back. "And Barbarta's an arsehole."

"Um…" Amanda smiled. "Okay. That's true. But I mean…well-"

"Come on, I know the history of this joint. I know you've worked here long enough to see other people be replaced by the noids."

"Noids?"

"Humanoids. Barbarta's pet name for Asimov's demonspawn."

Amanda stared at him.

"Y'know, Isaac Asimov? Sci-fi guy? Laws of robotics?"

Amanda kept staring.

"Never mind. I don't expect many people to know it."

"No, I do know it," she said. "I just didn't expect you to."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, given your background, I..." She trailed off. "Sorry, I didn't mean-"

"No, I bet you didn't."

Clarke slammed the doors open. He would have walked through them if Amanda didn't grab him by the wrist.

"Come on," she said. "One for the road, eh?"

The next few seconds were a blur as Clarke was led to a table. He just sat there as the Baboon Brothers did their act – a comedy duo who satirized politics, the economy, life in general, and more politics. Clarke tuned them out in his mind – he wasn't in the mood for satire when life itself seemed to have set him up as the punchline.

"Here," Amanda said, putting a bottle of _Uganda Waragi_ in front of him. "Kunywa hadi."

Clarke grabbed the bottle and started drinking. Matching his mood, the drink was bitter.

"Look, I know this sucks, alright?" Amanda said. "But if you-"

"Don't, alright?" Clarke asked, setting the bottle down on the table. "Don't do the 'it could be worse' routine, or 'I know how this feels.'"

"What makes you think I don't know?"

"Well, I know you come from Sudan, and that you likely came here as a refugee, your mother's dead, and your father…" He shrugged. "Hell if I know."

Laughter rippled through the crowd as one of the brothers imitated Marapana. It was laughter that Amanda didn't share. If anything, she seemed but a step away of using her own bottle as a weapon.

"How'd you know this?" she whispered. "I never told you."

"Barbarta. One year ago." Clarke took another swig of the gin. "Blame him, not me."

"Blame? You think this is about blame?"

"No, I think you're pissed like me, only for different reasons. I think that you sing about what's going on to the north, and how tough life is here, is that it's your own way of compensating."

"And you?" she snapped. "I suppose reading books makes you think you're more than a gutter rat from Kibera who's going to have to head back there."

"No, I think reading books is a good way for entertainment when I can't get my I-pad working." He shrugged. "Hard to tell what's cheaper nowadays."

The two sat on the table as more laughter rippled through the crowd. Clarke nursed his gin. Amanda had somehow finished her own before him and handed it over to Isaac. Or Karl. He was past caring at this point.

"My father crossed the border with me," Amanda said suddenly.

"Hm?"

"The border was more fluid back then. Families got priority." She reached forward and grabbed Clarke's gin and drunk the rest herself. "We lived in Bomet originally, before he came down with malaria."

"I'm sorry," Clarke murmured.

"Yeah, well, it happens. Planet's warming up, I suppose malaria's to be expected." She put the bottle to her lips again, only to put it down again after realizing that it was empty. "So, anyway, found I could sing, formed a band, got a job here. And unless humanoids make better singers than us meatbags, guess I'm set."

"Yeah," Clarke sighed. "Guess you are."

The two sat there. In silence. Watching the act. Hearing the laughter.

"Look, I should go," Clarke said eventually.

"Huh?"

"You'll perform again tomorrow. People will face your music. And me…" He rubbed his eyes, feeling two years of late-night work catch up on him, "I've got to face my own."

He went to leave. Only Amanda grabbed his hand, keeping it on the table. He looked at her. She looked back.

"Just saying," she whispered, "you don't have to face the music alone."


	4. Duet

**Elysium: Facing the Music**

**Chapter 4: Duet**

**December 26, 2040**

"And welcome back to Kenya Now, I'm your host, Frank Knight. With me now is ArmaDyne spokesperson Abraham Brooks, and analyst Jabala al-Hashemi, both of them here to discuss the approval to deploy peacekeeping humanoid units into United Sudan. A move that has stirred some controversy within the country and the African Union as a whole."

Amanda grunted. Her pillow wasn't feeling talkative however, and kept silent. Unlike the TV that hung off her bedroom wall, as pundits proved that they had nothing better to do on Boxing Day.

"And remember," she heard Brooks say, "the deployment of peacekeeping humanoids isn't without precedent. We all remember the Pyongyang Intervention."

"Yes, we do," Hashemi said. "And what a fine mess that was."

Amanda grunted again before swinging over across the bed. It felt bigger than she remembered. Then again, Clarke had been sleeping in it on and off the past year as he bounced from one job to the next, while she kept singing at Barbarta's. He must have headed out early, she reasoned. And forgotten to turn the TV off.

"Afghanistan, failed," she heard Hashemi say. "Iraq, failed. Syria, failed. History has shown again and again that this kind of action is doomed to failure."

"But Pyongyang-"

"Was free of such ethnic and religious tensions. If you want another example, just look at Palestine and Israel – nearly a century since the Palestine War, and still no two state solution."

More arguments erupted throughout the newsroom. Amanda groaned and searched for the remote, a process not helped by her pounding head. She found Christmas cake, underwear and…something else. But not her target

"The point is though," she heard Brooks say, "is that ArmaDyne is not a foreign power. ArmaDyne is a business."

"I feel so much better."

"You should, because a business needs people to work from, and can employ people locally. We're here at the African Union's request. We're setting up production at Kenya's request."

"So you're in the PMC business?"

"We're in the process of bringing stability to the region and providing jobs as we do so."

_Come on, where's that remote?!_

"But if I may say so," said Knight, butting in for a second, "this is without precedent, if we may ignore Pyongyang for a second. Mercenaries and PMC's aren't new, but to set up an economic base due to conflict, and to provide the forces that some analysts are saying would prolong that conflict? Some might call that the institutionalization of war."

"Oh come on!"

More arguments erupted. Arguments that were cut off as Amanda finally found the remote and switched the screen off.

_Finally._

And keeping up with her movement, she walked across the room, opening a screen door that led to her balcony. The crisp winter air flooded into the room, but she kept walking, leaning over the railing and beholding Nairobi. Out west was the Central Business District. To the east was Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, at which she could see a strato-carrier taking off as smaller planes headed in. She watched the light of the sun play off its wings, casting its light further into the city's spires.

_You're out there, are you then Clarke? No Happy Boxing Day? No, 'damn, you make good Christmas Cake?' No thank you for last night, you were amazing when you started to…ah, forget it._

Biting her lip, Amanda headed back inside, picking up the remote and turning the TV back on. For a moment, the image displayed the pundits arguing before she changed the channel. News, ads, more ads, a Christmas special that showed an anthropomorphic snowman trying to get a moose and polar bear to back down, before all three of them fell down onto the ice…

_Silly gits. There's no ice left at the north pole anyway._

Still, she kept watching, if only because the premise seemed more interesting than the material on the other channels. Though just as the snowman bent down to pick up his carrot nose, an image appeared in the bottom-right corner of the screen – **Incoming Call**. On instinct, Amanda accepted it. And on cue, the image of the snowman was replaced by one of Clarke. Quite a happy looking Clarke, she noticed. She could also see that he was out in the city somewhere, an image of what looked like a factory behind him, though the image from his mobile was a bit hazy. An ArmaWorks factory she noticed, judging by the **A**_**W **_image shining from the factory wall.

"Clarke?" she asked. "What you-"

"Celebration time," he said. "Little Christmas present."

"Christ…what? Christmas was yesterday, today's Boxing Day, and-"

"Well, today warrants that," he said. "Check this out."

The image of Clarke disappeared, and was instead replaced by a wall of text. Data stored on his phone, she supposed. Quickly, she read it. And felt ill.

**Name: Clarke Kimathi**

**Residence: Embaski, Embaski East, **

**77 Keru Avenue, Apartment 44A**

**Date of Birth: March 7, 2028**

**Nationality: Kenyan**

**Confirmation of employment at Industrial Area, South B, ArmaWorks. Role of factory worker.**

**6 day shift, to begin on January 7, 2041. Monday to Saturday, 8am to 5pm. Entitled to two weeks leave per year, plus public holidays.**

**Signed, **_**Antonio Karekezi**_

**12/26/40**

The image disappeared, and was replaced by Clarke's face again. Still beaming. Still happy.

"Well?" he asked. "What do you think?"

"What do I think?" Amanda whispered. "What do I _think_?!"

"Um…"

"Firstly, I think you should have asked me before using my address as your own. Just because I say you're welcome here doesn't mean you get the full run of the place."

"Come on, I could hardly list my old shack in-"

"Secondly, I don't like you slipping off at God knows what hour to apply for another job! I know work's been hard since Barbarta fired you but come on Clarke, at least tell me these things!"

"First come first serve, Amanda. I couldn't wait-"

"And thirdly, I mean, come on! ArmaWorks?! Do you have any idea what they do?!"

"Um, yeah?" Clarke said. "Build robots. And…repair robots…"

"Heaven help me…Clarke, that's ArmaDyne's PMC branch! The one they set up here so they had a base of production to send peacekeepers into Sudan!" Amanda felt a rush of ice down her spine, images of her childhood momentarily returning. Super-imposed with emotionless killing machines. "How…" she trailed off. "How do you think that would make me feel?"

"I don't know," he whispered. "Maybe if you talked about it sometimes."

"Oh, like how you talked to me about this?!"

"Amanda, please. It's just a job. I get how you feel about ArmaDyne right now-"

"Do you?"

"But we've all gotta eat. I know you've still got your job at Barbarta's, but not everyone is so lucky."

"Lucky, right. Another labour drone," she sneered at him. "Happy rest of your life you patz."

For a moment, something flickered in Clarke's eyes. For a moment, she thought he was going to smash his phone, or something similarly drastic. But as the screen disappeared and the words CONNECTION TERMINATEDappeared, she supposed he'd done the next best thing.

_Clarke…_

And thus returned the image of the snowman, moose, and polar bear. All hugging. The snowman saying that they all had to stick together.

_Ugh._

Amanda lay down on the bed, closing her eyes as the credits rolled and some cheery voice informed her that _Forsty Mosty's Christmas Connection _would be on next. She denied herself the pleasure as she shut the TV off.

_Maybe the snowman's right. Maybe we do have to stick together…_

Still, she supposed, if that was the case, she felt like the moose. Proud, independent, but still facing a beast that could tear her throat out. Not that Clarke would ever intentionally hurt her she knew, they'd been in this…arrangement long enough for her to realize that. But bears could be careless. Bears could scratch. And reflecting on how Clarke had joined an industry that would do God-knew what once it started deploying military humanoids up north…

She kept lying there, feeling the Christmas spirit slip ever further away.

And, she reflected, perhaps Clarke as well.


	5. Requiem

**Elysium: Facing the Music**

**Chapter 5: Requiem**

**November 4, 2041**

**All employees must have identification passes on them at all times. All employees must follow supervisors' instructions. All employees must report any suspicious activity.**

_Right. Anything else?_

**ArmaDyne. We're building a better world. And we're building it with you.**

_Oh._

Clarke could barely remember a time where the automated voice didn't warn the factory's employers about the possibility of insurgent attacks, as part of an effort to cripple ArmaWorks's PMC supply. Nor could he remember a time where he had an 8-5 shift rather than the current 8-6 one, as per the increased demand for ArmaWorks's humanoids. But as he looked at his watch, as he saw the minute hand reach the 5:30 mark, he sighed and returned to the task. The same task he'd carried out for the last nine months, and as far as he could tell, he'd carry out for the rest of his life.

_Gotta call Amanda soon._

A task that also included coaching newbies. So he turned to such an individual, the man looking at the rack of humanoids before them, as if he'd never seen them before.

_Nitwit._

"This, ah, strange, oui?" he asked

"Do tell," Clarke murmured.

"Ah…ah…"

"Juste dire qu'il!"

Clarke didn't know how someone like Pierre could have got a job at ArmaWorks, since he spoke neither English nor Swahili fluently. Nor did he know how he'd managed to pick up enough French to communicate with the newbie either. But he did know that while his position hadn't formally changed since he'd begun work back in January, he had become an unofficial supervisor of sorts, the type of person who newbies were placed with. And over the last week, that person had been Pierre Rukundo, a twenty-something year old from Rwanda who'd managed to find work in Kenya.

"Come on then," Clarke said, screwing in another bolt in the humanoid he was working on. "What's strange?"

"Ah, this. We work on…appareil mécanique. They replace us later, oui? Pourquoi travailler?"

Clarke snorted. "Y'think these guys are gonna take our jobs?"

"It…possibilité."

Clarke grunted, pressing a button below the rack that was displaying the humanoids. The one he'd been working on was taken away for painting, and another 'bot took its place. Taking a drill, he handed it to Pierre. The Rwandan might have a problem with the language, but in regards to imitation, Clarke hoped he'd picked up the basics.

"Kid, these are second generation battle-bots," he said, watching as Pierre drove in the screws on the humanoid's chest. "Cheap cannon fodder to deploy in Sudan and whatever other war ArmaWorks gets a contract for. They're not here for labour."

"Ah, but they…il s'est rétabli, oui? Replace us?"

"Yeah, well, maybe robots will take over the world someday and make us their pets or something," Clarke said. He took the drill from Pierre, pressed the button, and let another humanoid come towards them. "But not today."

He handed the drill back to his co-worker. He seemed to know what he was doing, Clarke thought, at least to the extent that he knew enough to be left alone for a few minutes. It gave him enough time to work over to a terminal, into which he slotted his phone-card. ArmaWorks was willing to give its employees communication rights provided that they pay for them and only use the terminals provided. And after choosing one of the few numbers he'd stored on the card, such a payment was made.

"Come on," he whispered. "Come on…"

CONNECTION MADE

_Yes!_

The text was replaced by an image of Amanda's apartment. And of her.

"Clarke," she said, her voice stiff.

"Hey," he said awkwardly. "How's things?"

"Fine."

"Um…er…"

"Clarke, things are fine. I'm fine. You're ruining that feeling of fineness by bothering me."

Clarke sighed. "Come on Amanda, I know you have to be at the bar soon. You could at least try talking to me. Especially since Barbarta's no longer running it."

"What's there to talk about? You do your job, I do mine, we pretend there's anything to actually talk about."

"Amanda-"

"No Clarke," she snapped. "I've had it. You want to work for ArmaWorks, fine. You want to build death machines, fine. But don't drag me into it."

Clarke didn't get a chance to speak. Not before the image disappeared and was replaced by the words CONNECTION TERMINATED**. **Automatically, his phone-card popped out of the slot. For a moment, he stood there. A moment later, he pocketed the phone card. And not automatically, he sat down against the wall on which the terminal was mounted on, spinning the phone-card through his fingers.

"Laana!" he exclaimed suddenly. "Umwagaji damu kuzimu!"

"Eh, pardon?"

Clarke looked up. Pierre was above him.

"Qu'est-ce que vous avez dit?"

Clarke glared at him as he put the phone-card back in his pocket. "None of your business."

Pierre fell silent, but the glare remained. What would the prat know, he wondered? What would Amanda know of doing a job because you had to, not because you wanted to? Why, he wondered, was he still calling her after nearly a year of working in a job she despised?

"Hey Pierre," Clarke murmured, "you got a girlfriend?"

"Pardon?"

"Girlfriend. Ah…petite." He made motions around his chest. "Bosoms, you know?"

"Ah, no. Je voudrais que les gars, vous savez?"

_Je voudrais…oh, _Clarke thought. _Right. Guys._

It didn't bother him. And nosy questions and lack of experience aside, he supposed Pierre didn't bother him too much either. He did his job, he seemed to be getting better at it, and as the six o'clock alarm sounded, he could see that Pierre had finished the job, ensuring that they wouldn't need to stay overtime.

"Hey guys."

And apparently, neither did Matobo.

Matobo was a security guard. An individual who looked the part of being big and muscular, but never acted like one. Clarke liked him. Mostly. But if this was going to turn into some pep talk on everything from Earth to Elysium's construction, he wasn't interested.

"Look," Clarke said. "I just want to finish this and get home, okay?"

"Sure." Matabo held out a scanner. "After your passes are scanned."

"Don't we do that after we sign out?"

Matobo snorted. "This factory employs three-hundred workers Clarke. I'd rather get a head-start."

"Oh. Sawa basi."

Pierre's card was handed in first. A second later, Clarke did the same.

"You sure this is okay?" Clarke asked. "I mean, won't we be logged out early or something?"

"I wouldn't worry," the security guard answered, handing the factory worker his card back. "Honestly, I think getting a head-start puts the bosses at ease."

"Why?"

"Catches any insider unawares. Bit of a shakeup to routine." He shrugged. "Hell if I know. And hell if I care."

Clarke frowned – if Matabo was cutting corners, he didn't want to be cut in turn. But it was too late now, he supposed. He looked at Pierre as the security guard walked away.

"Finish up on these," he said, gesturing to the humanoids. "I'm off."

"Pardon?"

"You," he said, pointing at his co-worker, then at the robots. "La fin, alright?"

"Ah…oui."

Clarke started walking. Matabo was being a dick, he reflected, and now he was too. Sooner or later, Pierre would know enough English or Swahili to be a dick as well. But that wasn't going to happen today. And of what was left of today, he didn't want to spend here.

_Right. And home's so much better._

"Hey Clarke, you leaving?"

_Least Amanda isn't there to be a dick to you?_

"Hey, Clarke!"

"What?!"

He spun around, facing another worker. Mohr, if he remembered his name correctly.

"You leaving?" the man asked again. "Shift doesn't end for another half-hour."

"Eh, fuck the shift." Clarke raised a finger. "Fuck 'em all, right?!"

"Ah, yeah," he replied. "Fuck 'em all!" He raised both his fingers up to the manager's office that overlooked the factory floor, his co-workers sniggering. "Kutomba 'em wote!"

_Yeah, that'll work._

Clarke kept walking. Why would anyone bother infiltrating this place, he wondered? There were too many arseholes to contend with.

"Fuck you!"

Case in point being Mohr. Or whatever his name was.

"Fuck!"

_Okay, you can tone it down you moron, you're gonna get us-_

He heard Mohr shout. Then scream.

He also heard the sound of gunfire.

_Shit! _Clarke dived down behind a wall of humanoids. _Shit shit shit!_

Everyone was shouting. Screaming. Their specific words drowned out by the sound of gunfire. Up at the roof, he could see men rappelling down through the windows, or even entering through holes in the room they'd made.

**Boom!**

Like the hole that had just been made in one of the factory walls. The one that more men were filling in through.

_Shit!_

Clarke ducked down behind one of the assembly lines, listening to the sounds of gunfire and screams. Sudanese insurgents, he reasoned, here to take out one of the hubs of production that was leading to the deaths of so many of their own. Clarke supposed he couldn't blame them…or at least he couldn't if they were only here to shut down production. He-

_Move!_

Keeping low, he started doing that as fast as he could. The exit was about fifty metres away. He-

_Matabo!_

Saw the man, gesturing to some workers to move. He saw him reach for his pistol. He saw him spasm as blood erupted from his chest. He saw him fall onto the factory floor, lying in a pool of blood.

_Oh my God…_

He saw soldiers approach the body. He saw how…normal, they looked. Normal clothes. Normal faces. Normal in every regard but for the guns they carried, and how one nudged Matabo with his boot before moving on. And he saw, much to his relief, that they hadn't glanced his way.

_Gotta move gotta move gotta move…_

But he didn't. He drew out his phone, hoping that the factory's jammer had been shut down.

NO SERVICE PROVIDED IN THIS AREA.

_Shit!_

He pocketed the device. He drew his head up a bit, seeing more gunfire, and the humanoids being destroyed through remote detonations. If any of the workers were still alive, he couldn't see them.

"Hal tatakalm?!"

But spinning around, he _could _see a man standing over him, as he remained crouched down. With a shotgun. Pointed at him.

"Hal tatakalm?!"

"I…I don't…"

"Kalama!"

"Please…" Clarke begged, reflecting that the words could be Arabic, but if they were, he had no chance of communication. "I…can't understand…Sielewi wewe."

Clarke met the man's eyes. He saw nothing. No hatred, no pity, _nothing_. What he saw next was the man raise his shotgun. About to fire.

"Please, I don't want to-"

The gun fired. The soldier fell down also, a bullet in his skull. And Clarke screamed as shrapnel tore into his right leg.

"God!" he screamed, falling down. "Ah! **Ahhh!"**

He could hear more gunfire. A _lot _more gunfire. And sirens.

**All employees remain calm, **droned the loudspeaker. **Security forces have arrived to contain the situation. No not move until further notice.**

Clarke screamed. _Don't move? I can't bloody move! Gah!_

He coughed. He cried. He glanced at his leg and screamed as he saw torn muscle and bone. As he saw blood pouring out of the wound.

_I…I can't…_

He threw up.

"Oh, God! Help! Help me!"

No-one came. The gunfire continued. The sirens wailed. Clutching the upper part of his leg with one hand, he reached for his phone for the other. Tears pouring down, his vision becoming blurry, he typed a number. Amanda's number.

_Oh God please work…please…_

CONNECTION MADE.

Finally, the jammer had been deactivated. It-

_Can't…can't…_

"Hello?"

Clarke dropped the phone. He lay down. His leg felt like it was on fire. His chest churned. His vision was almost gone.

"Clarke?" she asked. "God dammit is…is that _gunfire_?!"

"I'm sorry…" he rasped. "You were right…"

"Clarke?" she asked, her voice quivering. "What's happening? Are you alright?"

"So…sorry…right…"

"Clarke!"

"Right…sorry…"

"Tell me!" she sobbed. "Clarke, what happened?"

"I…you…"

He heard Amanda say something. He heard voices behind him. For a moment, he felt hands on his shoulders.

After that, he felt nothing.

A moment later, he saw nothing as well.

* * *

_A/N_

_This was perhaps the most difficult chapter for me to write in the story. Partly because it was around this time that I did a rehash of the original plot, length, and characterization. Partly because it involved action, which has always been an Achilles heel for me. Still, managed to get through it. _


	6. Minuet

**Elysium: Facing the Music**

**Chapter 6: Minuet**

**June 2, 2042**

"This, ah, once called, Barbarta's Bar?"

"Oui."

"And now?"

"And now," Clarke said, picking up a Tuskers, "I'm free to come in here and not resist the urge to punch the bastard in the face."

Pierre laughed and Clarke grinned, even as his left hand shook in nervousness, while his right clamped around the bottle harder than was needed. After taking a swill of the liquor, he put it down and moved his hand to his right leg, rubbing its metal surface.

"It still hurt?" Pierre asked.

"Sometimes," Clarke said, moving his hand to the boundary where the metal met flesh, massaging both sides. He glanced at one of the humanoids working in the bar, reminding him of the days of Isaac and Karl. He looked back at Pierre. "But hey, I appreciate it. Pain reminds me I'm still human."

Pierre chucked. "Poor liar, mes amies."

"What are friends for?" Clarke asked, taking another sip of his beverage. "What's a few lies between us?"

Pierre shrugged. Clarke smiled for a moment, before returning his hand to his leg. _Nerves, _Clarke thought._ In more ways than one._

Silence descended between the two men, standing in contrast to the din that filled the bar. Up on the stage, the Baboon Brothers did their act, parodying Marapana's defeat to now Prime Minister Nakaru a few months back. Unlike Barbarta, who'd been found in a gutter with the condition of being dead last year, they were still in business. Like Amanda still, who'd delivered her latest performance and was with her band backstage. Taking another sip of the Tuskers, Clarke wondered if he could count himself as being in business as well.

"Is it strange?" Pierre asked suddenly.

Clarke turned away from the stage; "what?"

"Being back here. This…les institutions, oui?"

"Not as strange as hearing you speak fluent English."

"And it not like you to avoid truth," Pierre said. He leaned over the table. "Your life. Your leg. It hurt, more ways than one?"

"Don't start Pierre," Clarke muttered. "I'm here for a reason tonight. Just play along."

"Ah, oui. Of course, monsieur."

Clarke sighed and closed his eyes, even as the bar's audience roared with laughter at the Brothers' jokes. He rubbed his leg again. Phantom pain, the ArmaDyne shrinks had called it. Something that his compensation package would cover, they said. Seven months on, and both the money and pain remained.

"Is it…good?" Pierre asked. "Living with Amanda again?"

"Oui," Clarke answered, still keeping his eyes closed and wondering where Amanda actually was. "She's…been good to me."

"Ah, ah. And-"

"And the factory?" Clarke interrupted. "You instructing newbies?"

"Ah, pardon?"

"Instructing. Teaching. Education. You doing well?"

"Ah, oui. Kagera, he may join me."

Clarke nodded. Pierre's significant other was still in Ruwanda, still making his own ends meet. Out of Pierre's sight, but not out of mind. Like Amanda was right now, Clarke thought. Opening his eyes again, he looked back at the stage, the Brothers now doing their wrap-up.

_Christ, where is she? If she…if I screw up…oh, God, don't screw up…_

"Hey Clarke."

"Gah!"

Clarke stood straight with a start, almost jumping out of his chair. To his silent gratitude, he didn't – partly because he risked losing his leg, partly because Amanda was standing there before him, alongside another man.

"Hey," he said, mainly to Amanda. "Where you been?"

_Shit, that was diplomatic._

"With me, finalizing last week's pay," the man said. "Not that she needs it," he added, his tone low.

"Yeah, well…" Clarke trailed off, giving Amanda's hand a squeeze with his own. "She's still the bread winner."

"Hmm," the man said, unconvinced. He held out a hand. "Kirika Kibaki. Miss Sarabi's boss."

"And owner, I take it," Clarke added. "See you kept the name."

"The Liquid Rose? Yes, I kept the name." Kibaki's eyes narrowed. "But thankfully the former owner's name is already being forgotten."

Clarke met the man's gaze. He looked African, and with his slim build, the opposite of Barbarta physically at least. But he didn't sound African, or speak African, or did anything to change his impression that his acquisition of the bar came from wealth alone. Heck, he even wore a tie – something that Barbarta would never do, especially in the heat of summer.

"Nasty business, I heard," Kibaki continued. "With what happened at the factory, and all that."

"Yeah, well…" Clarke trailed off, glancing at Amanda, "maybe I got what I had coming to me."

"Ended the war though, didn't it? Sudan's actually united again." He looked at Pierre. "And keeping your friends at work?"

"Oui, monsieur," Pierre murmured.

"Clarke took Amanda's hand again, intertwining his fingers with hers, trying to steady his nerves. "It ain't over for me," he added. "I'm using the money to take online courses. I'm thinking of working from home."

"In-"

"In my apartment," Amanda said. She leant down and kissed Clarke on the forehead. "Losing his leg…well, it gave our relationship a…kick."

Pierre snorted. Kibaki smiled. Behind them, the crowd clapped as the Baboon Brothers filed off the stage.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then," Kibaki said. He patted Clarke on the shoulder. "Habari ya jioni, Mister Kimathi."

Clarke watched him go over to his office. The same office that Barbarta once had, he reflected. The one where, three years ago, he'd been terminated.

_Some things never change I guess, _Clarke thought, rubbing his leg.

"So," Amanda asked both men. "Drinks? Shots? What about you Pierre?"

The Rwandan shrugged. Amanda turned to face Clarke. He faced her in turn. Her face, he thought, still like it was when he saw it half a decade ago. A little older, her hair a little longer, her eyes a little wiser, but otherwise, the same face. The same person.

"Clarke?"

And that was why he stood up. That was why, smiling at her, he started hobbling over to the stage.

"Clarke?"

He grit his teeth as pain shot through his thigh. He remembered reading an article by a Doctor Wesley a few months back, that human limb regeneration technology could be achieved within the century. If that was going to be the case, Clarke thought, it was technology that couldn't come soon enough. Not like that bloody ringworld that was still being built, its construction moving about as fast as a tectonic plate.

Breathing heavily, Clarke made it to the stage. Breathing heavily, he cast his gaze around the bar, most of its patrons minding their own business bar Amanda and Pierre. Steadying his breath, he tapped the microphone.

"Um, testing?" he asked. "Er, is this thing on?"

The crowd looked up. The humanoids continued about their business. Through the gloom, he could see Amanda mouth 'what are you doing?'

_What indeed? _

"Um, yeah," he said. "My name's Clarke, and, er, I used to work here. In the old days. In…" He trailed off, seeing Kibaki walk out of his office. "In days where things were different. When I had a boss who fired me on the spot. When I had a good leg. When I could hold more liquor."

Soft laughter rippled throughout the crowd. Glancing at Kibaki, Clarke ascertained from his lack of movement that he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt for the moment.. And Amanda…he smiled. She smiled. She seemed willing to give him that benefit as well.

"Y'know, it's funny actually," he said. "Today's the second of June. And it was on this very date, back in thirty-seven, when I began work here. When I first met a certain lady who entertained you less than an hour ago." He cast out a hand towards Amanda. "The lovely Amanda, here. And her band, of course."

Clapping rippled throughout the audience. Amanda took an awkward bow.

"You know her from what she sings," Clarke continued. "But I know her for what else she does. For who she is."

The heads turned back.

"I know her as the person who comforted me when I was fired. I know her as the person who gave me a stable residence. I know her…" Clarke paused for breath, "I know her as the person who after I lost my leg, has helped me through everything the world could throw at me. At us. As the person who keeps singing, Keeps smiling. Keeps…well, everything."

Someone whooped. Some people laughed. His left hand shaking, his right hand rubbing his leg, Clarke steadied his nerves long enough to put his right hand in place, and his left hand in his pocket.

"So, Amanda, I ask you this," he said. "I…" He fumbled in his pocket, trying to get the object out. "I…"

Someone sniggered. A few others followed.

"I would like to ask…" Fighting the pain in his leg, he managed to pull out the object. A small object. A round object. A ringed object.

"Will you marry me?"


End file.
